


Bottle it Up

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur thinks to himself that at this point he should be used to war, used to the loss of his men. But he is not, and after two ambushes in one day, he is forced to realize that Alfred, too, is in many ways much too young for war. </p><p>How sweet it is, to die for one's country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bottle it Up

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ December 10, 2010. 
> 
> This is my fill for the usxuk secret santa exchange. The recipient for this is colevic, and all three prompts were awesome. I had a really hard time choosing which one to go with, and actually started something for all three. This is the one that ended up winning the day, though. The prompt: "Era: WWII. In the midst of battle, England is injured. America saves him and England gets a different glimpse of his former colony. " I do, however, lack practice in writing depictions of war, so I apologize for any inaccuracies or anachronisms. 
> 
> Warning: This is a WWII fic and takes place in Nazi-occupied France. So general warnings for that. Note also that the opinions of characters are not necessarily those of the author's.

The first thing Arthur remembered was someone shaking him awake and shouting his name, in a loud, brash, and distinctly American accent. He furrowed his brow before snapping his eyes open, already prepared to launch into a lecture—  
  
And was met with wide, blue eyes relaxing at the corners in what could very well be relief. “Oh, good—you woke up! I thought you’d died.”  
  
“A nation cannot die,” Arthur sniffed, and turned his head to the side. When he caught sight of a dead soldier beside him—one of his own, one of his party—he felt sick to his stomach and had to turn his face away. “Fuck.”   
  
“What happened?” Alfred asked, helping Arthur sit up. Arthur punched the arm away and dusted himself off. His body felt old, creaking, but he did not flinch. His body was old, far older than any man in this war, but he was used to fighting. Perhaps not warfare like this—but the Great War had prepared him, at least somewhat, for this modern era.   
  
“Ambush,” Arthur said, and rose steadily to his feet. Alfred was already there, holding his gun and pack for him—and probably would have continued to hold them, had Arthur not insisted and wrenched them back. “We weren’t prepared—neither were they. But they adjusted faster than we could.”   
  
Now that he was more aware of his surroundings, Arthur could look around. He took in the sight of his dead soldiers, the men he’d led through France for the past few weeks. The enemy soldiers hadn’t all escaped unscathed, though—Arthur noted the dead bodies not far from where his men had fallen.   
  
“No survivors for my boys,” Arthur said quietly.   
  
Alfred wasn’t looking at the dead bodies. He was staring down at his hands, grasping his gun. His brow was furrowed, and Arthur was momentarily taken aback by such a reserved expression. Arthur had grown used to the boisterous, overly confident attitude from Alfred ever since he and his country had joined the war. Seeing such reservation was not only alarming, but distressing.  
  
“Alfred—?”  
  
Alfred jerked his face up, and was all smiles. It was a bit unnerving, to see a stainless steel smile in the midst of destruction and dead bodies. Arthur felt as if he was going to be sick. The sunny expression, forced, unnatural—it didn’t suit the boy.   
  
“They must have thought you died, too,” Alfred said, still not looking at the bodies.  
  
Arthur’s expression crumbled for a moment. “Perhaps.”  
  
He set down his pack and his gun, and knelt down, keeping his face painfully neutral as he shut the dead soldier’s eyes, and then dragged him over to the flattest part of the ground. Alfred didn’t move. He stayed as still as a dead body himself as Arthur went about shutting the glazed eyes of his lost men, and carried them to lay side by side their fellow countrymen. Arthur kept his face angled away from Alfred so that he would not see the tears that fell onto his men’s cheeks. Ideally, after centuries of living, Arthur would be used to the death of his men, would be used to war—but not a single day in this war passed when he did not feel the death of his soldiers and his civilians in his very core.   
  
The entire time, Alfred did not move, and kept his eyes angled away.   
  
When Arthur finished, he straightened, standing before his fallen men, his eyes misty and wavering his vision. He cried without shame, but that did not mean that he did not turn to face Alfred at any time during this. Alfred, for his part, seemed at least somewhat knowledgeable of having some decent respect for the dead and mourning. He stayed silent.   
  
When Arthur finished and had composed himself, he straightened his uniform, passing his thumb over the bullet wound in his shoulder that could have proven fatal for someone who was not a nation. He would deal with it once he reached the checkpoint. He could not afford to stop now. Arthur shouldered his pack, slipped his fallen pistol back into its holster, and retrieved his gun.   
  
“Arthur…?” Alfred asked. He slanted his eyes towards the fallen Germans. “Them too?”  
  
Arthur looked over towards the small collection of fallen enemy soldiers. They, too, looked far too young. Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumping. “You do it. I haven’t the strength.”  
  
Something flickered in Alfred’s eyes, and he bit his lip. Then, slowly, he set down his own things and slogged through the mud and blood on the ground towards the other fallen boy soldiers. Arthur sighed, pressing a hand to his face, feeling infinitely tired.   
  
“You somehow manage to look regal no matter what you do, huh?” Alfred asked, his back to Arthur as he knelt in front of one of Ludwig’s men. Alfred stared down at the man for a long time, and for a moment Arthur thought that maybe Alfred had spoken to the fallen boy, not to Arthur. But then Alfred looked up and over to Arthur. Alfred’s face was calmly neutral, similar to Arthur’s own—and such a thought unnerved him. “You even make being haunted elegant.”  
  
“Haunted,” Arthur parroted, and then sighed, looking up at the sky. The clouds were long and expansive, but nothing like his own sky. “Yes…”   
  
“You should teach me how you do it,” Alfred said quietly, but probably not loud enough that he’d meant for Arthur to hear. Arthur kept silent—he was good at that: pretending not to hear the things Alfred said sometimes. It was easier. He had too much to carry as it was.   
  
The next hour passed in silence. Arthur watched as Alfred worked to line the soldiers up, closing their eyes and putting their bodies into relatively comfortable positions. When he finished, he stood up and stayed there, his hands fisted as he stared down at the bodies. Arthur couldn’t decipher the expression, but Alfred stayed there for a long time, his lips moving with silent words—a prayer, perhaps.   
  
Alfred shook his head when he returned. “They all die.”   
  
“They’re human. And they’re at war,” Arthur said, and felt every seared, jagged slash across his body—long since turned to scars.   
  
“Is it worth it, for them?” Alfred asked, eyes on the soldiers all lined up in a row.   
  
“ _Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori._ ”   
  
Alfred stared at him.  
  
Arthur sighed, “ _It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country._ ”  
  
Alfred made a face. “I know what it means.”   
  
“I suppose you would,” Arthur said. His thumb pressed against his shoulder wound again, but this time Alfred noticed.  
  
“Hey…” Alfred began, stepping forward, and reaching out his hand. Arthur did not flinch, though the inclination was there—and Alfred placed his hand on his shoulder, over the bullet wound. Alfred looked as if he was going to say something, but Arthur wouldn’t let him.   
  
“And how appropriate, that we should feel that sweet lie in every little death,” Arthur continued, and felt the pang in his heart—a ghost’s wound. He closed his eyes. Arthur sighed and it seemed all the strength sank out of him. His spine curved, and he felt once again like a little boy, battle-shy and lonely.   
  
“You should stop talking, old man. You’re getting delirious,” Alfred said, words a bit harsh, but his touch on Arthur’s shoulder solid and gentle. He did not press too hard, and Arthur was silently thankful for Alfred’s restraint. “Come on,” Alfred said quietly. “We should keep moving. Where was your checkpoint supposed to be?”  
  
“The village—across the river,” Arthur said, gesturing vaguely over the long expanse of pastoral wasteland. There was no river to be seen, as it was miles out.   
  
Alfred looked off, as if he could spot just where Arthur meant. But soon he nodded. “Yeah, me too.”  
  
Perhaps for the first time, Arthur realized that Alfred was without his own men, as well. He looked up at the boy, and Alfred returned his gaze, blinking in surprise. And then smiling. It seemed less painful to look at, though Arthur had to wonder just when Alfred had begun to grow a vocabulary of smiles.   
  
“Let’s get moving, then.”   
  
“Yeah,” Alfred agreed, and followed after Arthur as the older nation started moving, pulling away from Alfred’s touch.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Are you sure you don’t know where we are?” Alfred asked for the third time in the last ten minutes. It’d been three hours since they’d set out, and the pastoral lands of tall grass and wandering cows had become thinned forest, with roots and hidden dips just waiting to trip them—and Alfred had already stumbled into Arthur a few too many times. He’d gone crashing into Arthur and slammed him into a tree more than once. Arthur had a bruise on his cheek with the texture and groove of tree bark to prove it.   
  
At the question, Arthur whipped around, shackles raised and expression twisted in his anger and fatigue. “For the last time would you shut the fuck up? _No,_ I do not know where we are.”  
  
Alfred blew hot air from puffed cheeks, a quiet _ffffff_ sound that feathered through the hair framing his face, sweat collected at his brow. “Damn it, Arthur, I think—”  
  
“What, pray tell, do you think, my dear, stupid lad?” Arthur drawled, lip curling in distaste.   
  
“I think you _should_ know where we are,” Alfred continued, only looking slightly annoyed with the interruption—stupid, foolish boy—“Because it’s France and aren’t you European guys always supposed to be in each other’s vitals all the time?”  
  
Arthur gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to smash Alfred’s head in with his gun. He hissed out his breath through clenched teeth, and slowly counted down from ten.  
  
Ten seconds was apparently too long for Alfred, because he was quickly bounding up to Arthur’s side and whining again: “Arthuuuuuur, come on. Think! Can’t you just, like, tell from looking where we are?”  
  
“For the last time, NO,” Arthur barked, and elbowed Alfred in the gut when the boy got too close. He ducked away with a loud _oof_ and Arthur stomped along through the muddy backcountry to Francis’ stupid, stupid country filled with stupid, stupid Germans. For fuck’s sake. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a forest. Even if I could see the damned sun to tell our direction, I couldn’t make heads or tails of this ridiculous country.”   
  
Alfred was, ultimately, undaunted by Arthur’s harsh treatment of him, because soon enough he was whining again about being lost and hungry.   
  
“It’s cold as fuck out here,” Alfred whined. “It’s going to snow and then I’m really going to be unhappy.”  
  
“Luckily for you, you have a layer of blubber to keep you warm. Now stop this insistent whining before I lose my mind,” Arthur snapped, looking over his shoulder to glare at Alfred. The effect was lost when he stumbled a little over a tree root.  
  
Alfred’s brow furrowed. “I’m not fat!”   
  
“You are.”  
  
“You’re just jealous cause even when my people are on rations, they’re eating better than your people on a good day,” Alfred snapped, and then almost instantly looked sheepish.  
  
Arthur’s eyes narrowed. He almost missed the wary, desolate boy he’d seen when he’s first woken up a few hours ago. Seeing the cocky, imprudent Alfred he was used to was grating and obnoxious. A small voice in the back of his head reminded him that at least this Alfred was not unnerving in his reserve. That did not stop Arthur from wanting to strangle him, however.   
  
“Do not,” Arthur snapped, “belittle my people’s sacrifices.”   
  
“All I’m saying,” Alfred said, obviously content to dig his hole, “is that you can stand to be a little nicer to me! I’m the one that’s saving everyone’s asses, after all.”   
  
Arthur clenched his eyes shut and tried to count down from ten again, his face coloring in his anger.   
  
“I’m taking your silence as conceding to my superior point, Arthur,” Alfred said cheerfully behind him.   
  
“You are very much mistaken.” Arthur did his best to remain calm. He was failing.   
  
“Yeah, whatever, Arthur,” Alfred muttered. He looked away and kept walking, looking as if he might shove past Arthur and be the one to lead the way instead. Arthur sped up his pace to maintain the lead, eyes narrowed and angry to the ground.   
  
“Do you see fit to drive all of us to insanity, boy?” Arthur almost snapped, and only just managed to keep his tone even. “And you wonder why you have no friends in this world!”  
  
He heard Alfred slow his pace a little. “Hey—”  
  
“You walk around as if you are God’s gift to the world, when in reality you are nothing but a simple, foolish child. We may _need_ you here, Alfred, but none of us _want_ you here.”  
  
The satisfaction of these words was short-lived. As soon as he spoke it, he regretted it, even if some of the words were true. When he looked over his shoulder, Alfred was staring at him with widened eyes.   
  
But he had already dug himself into a hole and couldn’t back down now, nor could he summon up the pride to apologize for being too rash. He continued, even as he knew that he should just _be silent_ : “No one likes you, Alfred. Not your enemies, certainly not your allies. And you have no one to blame but yourself—your own pride, your own arrogance. That will all be your downfall, and no one will mourn it when your ego is knocked down a few pegs.”  
  
Alfred’s lips were pursed, pressed into a thin line, so tightly that his lips colored white. His cheeks, meanwhile, colored—whether from shame or anger, Arthur knew not.   
  
“You’re—” Alfred began, and his breath hitched a little. His voice cracked, and just that little detail was so painfully vulnerable that Arthur felt the blood in his veins run cold. Alfred wasn’t looking at him. He said, quietly, “You’re such an asshole, Arthur.”  
  
Arthur stopped walking and turned to face Alfred fully. Alfred stopped as well, his face still red, and not looking at Arthur. He almost looked humble, except Arthur knew better—he knew that tension in the shoulders, that balling of fists.   
  
“I am only speaking the truth.”  
  
Arthur saw Alfred grit his teeth, and his knuckles turn white from the force of his clenched fists. “Shut up.”   
  
“Oh? You can dish it out but you can’t take it, boy?” Arthur sneered. He turned his nose up a little, staring at Alfred as if he was something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of his boot.   
  
“Shut up,” Alfred said again, quieter than before.   
  
“And why should I?”  
  
“Maybe I should just let all of you die! Huh? Is that what you want? Maybe I’ll just leave—you’ll be sorry, then!” Alfred shouted, his voice cracking again.   
  
Arthur continued to sneer. “Don’t threaten me, simpleton. As if I have _anything_ left to lose as it is!”   
  
“Yes, that’s true! Look at you, the _great_ British Empire, fallen down to his knees. I’ve seen you, Arthur! Weakened, thinned, starving. You’re not going to be stronger after this. After _I_ win the war, you’re going to be weak and _nothing._ I almost pity you.”   
  
The words stung, but in the back of his mind Arthur supposed he deserved it. This did not prevent the predominate parts of his brain from flaring up in anger, and it showed clearly on his face. “You—”  
  
“How shameful it must be, to have to answer to _me._ To have to beg me for help, huh?” Alfred interrupted. “The great British Empire—the sun never sets!—having to ask his little upstart of a former colony for help because he knows that that former colony is so much stronger than him now!”   
  
“You need to—”  
  
“I don’t need to do _anything_ you say, Arthur,” Alfred shouted. He stomped forward, looked as if he was going to punch Arthur. But, instead, he shoved his hand out, pressing his palm against Arthur’s bullet wound and shoved. The strength was too much and Arthur lost his footing. He gasped in pain, grabbing at his shoulder and slamming into a tree. The leaves shook and a few dead leaves plummeted to the ground.   
  
“Fuck,” he hissed in pain, curling over into himself.   
  
Alfred didn’t stop to see the result. He stomped away, and soon the sound of his footfalls was gone. Arthur slumped forward further, falling to his knees and gasping out a short moan of pain as he felt his body scream from the unnatural force of the shove, the slam into the tree, the screeching pain of a bullet still lodged in his shoulder. His body had been in shock these past few hours, probably—he hadn’t noticed the bullet wound.   
  
Now, his body sang with its pain. Shaking fingers groped for his jacket pocket, searching for the forceps he carried with him now for that very reason, for the purpose of plucking the bullets from his body. It happened enough now that carrying them was a necessity. He’d pretended to die too many times these past few months.   
  
His fingers were shaking too much, though, his body too tensed to move. He couldn’t open the flap of the pocket. And now Alfred was gone.   
  
Arthur thought, sourly, that he deserved this.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He didn’t know how long he stayed slumped up against that tree, but he could feel the sun moving above the canopy of evergreen trees. He clenched his eyes shut and panted, trying to calm his racing heart down. He tried to summon the ability to hold steady and recover. The battles of the last few weeks were finally catching up to him. Perhaps he should be thankful for Alfred—it was his presence that gave Arthur the ability to connect his emotions again, and by all hell was he paying the price.  
  
He heard footsteps. He closed his eyes and stopped breathing, hoping that it was Alfred but not being too optimistic. The footfalls did not sound like Alfred’s at all, and after a few moments Arthur realized that there was more than one pair of footsteps. He strained his ears, trying to pick up the strings of language—any language—to let him know just who he was dealing with. Enemies or allies?   
  
He heard it. The words whisked off the tree bark.   
  
Germans.  
  
Arthur scanned his surroundings, searching for any place he could hide, should they pass near there. He pressed himself up against the tree, still not breathing, doing his best not to rustle the fallen leaves around his feet. He swallowed thickly, and his entire body felt cold and dry. He stayed absolutely still, willed them to pass through these trees and not see him, or, worse, see Alfred when he was probably too flustered and angry to pay proper attention to his surroundings.   
  
The footsteps were falling closer. Arthur knew it would be impossible to move and hide. He closed his eyes, to steady his nerves, and then gripped his gun tightly. Slowly, so slowly, he rose to his feet. He swayed just a little, and then felt the calm roll over him. His face set in its determination, and his body stopped shaking. He suppressed all the feelings boiling in his chest, and became nothing more than ice.   
  
_Do not come here—_ No. That was a negative affirmation. He remembered his magic. To use the negative, to command a negation was to invite the exact opposite. Arthur clenched his eyes shut and thought, a mile a minute: _You will go in the other direction, you will go in the other direction._  
  
But his thoughts wandered. _Do not find Alfred—do not hurt Alfred—_  
  
His finger curled around the trigger of his gun. His body was humming. His mind was whirling. No negative affirmations. Only the positive, only the insistence of fortification. As much as he hated the boy sometimes, he would not let him get hurt because of his own foolishness. _Alfred will remain unharmed._   
  
The footsteps were closer. He was cornered. He knew it. He had hoped for the opposite. If they thought he was alone, though. If they thought that—they would not find Alfred. Alfred would be safe.   
  
Arthur suppressed a sigh. Damn his martyrdom to high heaven.   
  
He waited until the Germans were close enough, waited until they were almost passing by his horrid hiding place—just a measly tree, and now it would be scarred forever (he sent a silent apology to the mystical creatures that still lived within these forests)—and then he leaned out, gun poised, and fired a few rounds into the group of foreign soldiers.   
  
The quick dart from behind the tree allowed him to see the numbers—about twenty. Twenty humans to one empire. It was almost an even fight, but they certainly had the numbers. Arthur listened to the confused scattering of footsteps as a few men fell: wounded or dead Arthur knew not. The words shouted into the air and the men fell behind trees. The commanding officer barked some commands, and Arthur waited, patiently, focusing on the words and trying to translate.   
  
He was interrupted from his attempts at translation by the blast of bullets against the tree off to the left and behind his shoulder. He cringed, but held firm, smoothing out his features. He blew out a long breath of air and thought, sourly, _If you’re out there, you damn frog, you better appreciate me liberating your fucking horrid country._  
  
And then he leaned out again, sending back his own bullets. He caught some unfortunate soul in the head and he fell to the ground with a thud.   
  
_If you’re close enough to hear the bullets, Alfred, stay away. Protect yourself._   
  
A string of bullets ripped into Arthur’s back as he ducked away and he bit into his lip so harshly that it almost split and bled. He felt each bullet with minute detail, ripped into his flesh and lodged into muscles. His body shuddered. His body was already so ripped, so scarred—what were five more bullets?   
  
The exchange of bullets continued for some time, paused only when Arthur ran out of bullets and fumbled to reload his weapon. His hands were still shaking and he was aware of every passing moment that ticked by. He couldn’t move far from behind the tree. He had no one else to cover him, and the tree was being eaten alive by the bullets. He caught a few more bullets in his arms and a couple in his leg. His body weighed down with bullets—it was almost poetic. He sensed that the Germans were merely biding their time (they must believe that he would die soon—and if he were a human he would indeed be dead), and as the minutes shaved off from the hour, Arthur was well aware of the dire situation. He would not die—he did not know if a body like his could die. But when the Germans found out about that, he would be captured and from there—who knew what? He’d already shot down about seven of the men, but there were still the others waiting.  
  
His hands fumbled to load his gun, but he never got the chance. So focused on loading his gun, so focused on concentrating on the men just within his peripheral, behind the tree, he’d forgotten to pay attention to any men who may have rounded around, to find him from behind.   
  
Arthur realized this too late. He only realized when he felt the butt of a gun slam into the side of his head and with a cry he sprawled out onto the ground. He caught the kick of a German boot right in the rib and gasped out in pain as he skidded across the fallen leaves, his gun falling away from his hand and the ammunition thudding uselessly onto the ground. He rolled onto his back just in time to block another kick, but not before he felt one of his fingers break.   
  
“Fuck,” he gasped out, eyes wide as the German pointed his gun down at Arthur and began shouting commands—undoubtedly wondering from where he’d come and where his fellow soldiers were. Undoubtedly they believed him to be a scout.   
  
Arthur spat up at him when the soldier leaned in closer. He regretted it, somewhat. The soldier was a young boy, younger than even Alfred appeared. It made a shudder curl painfully down his spine. The salvia spittle across his face did not amuse the soldier, and he slammed his heel down into Arthur’s gut. Arthur gasped and coiled into a fetal position, and met the brunt of a kick to his back with all the dignity a falling empire could behold.   
  
The other soldiers had advanced, one picking up Arthur’s gun and the other kicking away his ammunition. Two more ripped open his pack and searched through it for any radios or information to explain where this wayward allied soldier had come from. They would find nothing.   
  
One soldier, probably the commanding officer, grabbed Arthur by his hair and hauled him to his knees, jerking Arthur’s face back to stare up at him. The man was older looking, early-thirties perhaps. Arthur scanned his face as the soldier barked out German. Arthur tried to concentrate enough to translate.   
  
When he realized it wasn’t working, the commanding officer said, in heavily accented French, “Where did you come from?”  
  
“Fuck you,” Arthur hissed. His reward was a pistol slapped across his face and he jerked to the side from the force. His mouth exploded with the taste of copper and he choked, coughing out the blood so it splattered across the dun colored leaves on the ground.   
  
Arthur’s hand groped for the Enfield revolver in its holster, but one of the soldiers took it from him before he could claim it as his own. The commanding officer stared at it, and then the understanding dawned. “ _English._ ”   
  
Leave it to the Germans to identify nationality by the weapons issued. Arthur might have found that amusing if the commanding officer wasn’t now using Arthur’s own gun to bash in his head. The commanding officer to the German troop kept demanding to know where he was from, where he was headed, and where his troops were situated. Arthur only shook his head.  
  
The German cursed loudly, and threw Arthur down onto the ground, his boot pushing onto the tree bark bruise of Arthur’s cheek. Arthur clenched his jaw, felt his face dig into the mud and knew that he would always mourn the loss of peaceful days, though he had a hard time recalling a time when he could consider his life peaceful.   
  
His nostalgic musings were interrupted when soldier’s boots slammed down onto his body. He stifled the cry of pain, too proud, glaring up at the soldiers with burning eyes. The boots slammed into his face, nearly breaking his nose, his ribs, his stomach, his legs. He felt something in his leg shift and then clench, breaking underneath the force of the kick. His patella, Arthur thought distantly—they’d knocked his kneecap out of place. And he suspected that some of his ribs would be bruised. He did not cry out in pain. That was not what Arthur did, not in the face of little boys sent to war.   
  
What happened next was too quick for Arthur to understand properly. One moment the soldiers were kicking at his body, the next, he heard more gunshots and the men kicking his ribs fell. The other men looked up in shock, scrambling to point their guns in some vague direction. They had no hope of locating the shooter, as more of the men fell. The ones surveying Arthur’s backpack slumped into the tree and fell to their knees. The one that had dislodged his knee choked on blood and fell. The others were in an uproar, and the commander barked out orders until a bullet sailed into his head and he fell, too.   
  
And then he heard the familiar shout of English in a horrible American accent, and Arthur almost closed his eyes from relief, except that would mean he might fall asleep or pass out like last time. He reached out feebly for his handgun, still clenched in the fallen German’s hands.   
  
He saw Alfred descend from the tree he’d undoubtedly climbed—a tactic he’d learned centuries ago. He came down, bullets blazing, lodging into the poor, young children who would never know grandchildren and arthritis. Alfred shouted something to Arthur, but Arthur could not make it out and had no intention to. His fingers curled around his handgun, and he slowly raised it, considering taking some kind of sick satisfaction and blowing another bullet into the German commander’s brain. He didn’t. He had more respect for the dead than that.   
  
He did, however, turn his face away, eyes on Alfred, waiting for Alfred to fall from an unexpected bullet wound. None came, though. He had taken them all by too much surprise, and he stood, legs straddled on either side of Arthur’s body, and he swept his submachine gun over the sprawled forest landscape. The unfortunate Germans who couldn’t dive behind a tree quickly enough fell with the bullets in their back, and it did not take long for Alfred to cherry-pick the remaining few who had never expected that stumbling upon a wayward enemy soldier would mean their deaths.   
  
“ _Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,_ ” Arthur murmured to the sky. “How sweet and fitting it is to die for one’s country. Death pursues the man who flees, spares not the hamstrings or cowardly backs of battle-shy youths.”   
  
“You are not allowed to get poetic on me right now, old man,” Alfred ordered, and then he was rushing away, ducking behind a tree just in case he’d missed a few soldiers. “Stay down. How many were there?”  
  
“Twenty,” Alfred said, his voice wavering. “I leveled seven before they got me.”   
  
Alfred’s eyes swept over the scene, counting the bodies, his expression wavering only twice—once when he caught sight of how young these Germans were, and a second time when his eyes passed over Arthur. Alfred pretended not to see either, and pretended that he did not notice the way the tension curled into Alfred’s eyes and his hands shook. It was much easier to believe him to be foolhardy and a warmonger, not one who regretted the lives he stole.   
  
Alfred stayed pressed up against the tree, and waited for the bullet-song from any of the soldiers left. When none appeared, he darted out again and ducked behind another tree, slowly making ground as he counted bodies on his way. Arthur didn’t move, but even from that distance, he could see the way Alfred’s expression crumbled occasionally.   
  
“Twenty,” he heard Alfred say, and watched as he relaxed a little, letting his gun fall to his side. He stood there for a long moment, staring somewhere at the middle-ground, a space between the dead bodies and the trees.   
  
Then he seemed to remember himself and turned around, hurrying over to Arthur. “Arthur—!”  
  
Arthur had no time to react, and even so he wouldn’t have had the words to say as he watched Alfred approach him.   
  
Alfred hooked his hand into Arthur’s armpit and tried to haul him up. “Arthur—”  
  
Arthur’s response was to crumble into Alfred’s arms as soon as he was on his feet. “Christ,” he hissed, tasting the blood in his mouth and the roaring pain in his veins. “Fuck—my leg…”   
  
“Shit!” Alfred gasped, and then hooked Arthur’s arm over his shoulder. He slumped a little, staring into Arthur’s eyes and surveying the pain in Arthur’s tightened expression. “Don’t hide it, old man. How much does it hurt?”  
  
“They broke it,” Arthur said weakly, mortified at his own oversight at letting Alfred stomp off alone and now having to lean and rely on Alfred’s strength—This was probably just what the bastard wanted, too. “It’ll heal—don’t look so smug—”  
  
“I’m _not_ smug, asshole,” Alfred snapped, interrupting him and looking legitimately annoyed. “Can you walk?”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur snapped, though he honestly had no idea. “Put me down first, though, on that log over there. My body is killing me—I’m too old for this.”   
  
Alfred, mercifully, did as was commanded of him, and led Arthur to a fallen log, letting him sit down on the moss-covered trunk. Arthur hissed through his teeth, tugging his trousers out of his boots and rolling it up with shaking hands, too many fingers broken and swollen. Soon his hands were shaking too hard and Alfred took over, kneeling down in front of Arthur and rolling the fabric up for him.   
  
His knee was swollen and angry. Alfred’s breath caught, but he otherwise did not react. Arthur still saw the tension in Alfred’s eyes, and hated to see it. Let the fool be boisterous and cocky—that, at least, was something that Arthur knew how to handle, even if it infuriated him without question.  
  
He’d spent so much of this war, so often, badgering Alfred for his carefree, stupid nature. For his inability to present himself in an intelligent fashion and insisting on being stupid and childish. He’d spent so long looking upon his youthful arrogance with disgust, his idealism and desire to help as a foolish attempt at leadership, deserving of nothing more than an eye roll. Now, with Alfred quietly examining Arthur’s body for more injuries, and seeing where he’d shoved Arthur, in addition to the new wounds he’d collected in Alfred’s absence.   
  
Arthur wondered, vaguely, if he missed Alfred’s stupidity. Alfred studying Arthur with such intense looks was unnerving at best. His eyes, looking far older than they should. And yet, the boy had known war—how could he be so torn by it when he shot into enemies? Perhaps for the first time Arthur understood why Alfred preferred the sky—why he preferred the targets he could not see.   
  
The thought sobered Arthur considerably.   
  
“Arthur…” Alfred began.  
  
“What?”   
  
“You’re hurt—”  
  
“ _Thank you_ for reminding me. I’d somehow forgotten this in all the fun,” Arthur said, dryly, and in any other situation he might have smiled sardonically—but now was not the time. “You sure you got them all?”  
  
Alfred stared at him, confused.  
  
“The Germans,” Arthur said softly, and jerked his head towards the fallen bodies. When he turned his face away, he saw the dead eyes of the commander staring at him. He swallowed thickly, and willed his voice not to shake. “The twenty—”  
  
“I got them,” Alfred said softly, his voice suddenly heavy and thick on the air.   
  
Arthur heaved a sigh. “Ah…”  
  
There was a long silence.  
  
Arthur glanced to him, watching Alfred’s face. “Lad…” he began, and Alfred’s expression flickered to mimic Arthur’s—neutral. Arthur was not sure what to make of it. “Are you… What are—”  
  
“Look at how far we’ve come, Arthur,” Alfred said, quietly, and then smiled. “Is it all worth it?”  
  
Arthur wasn’t sure what to make of that expression. His brow furrowed. “I—”  
  
“I think,” Alfred interrupted. “It’ll only get ‘more’ from here. Better or worse?” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”   
  
“Alfred…”  
  
“Humans war all the time, I know,” Alfred said, before Arthur could voice any words. “But even so…”   
  
Arthur felt himself even more unnerved. Alfred looked like the boys who’d come back from the Great War. His poor boys who returned to English shores still looking haunted, still looking as if they were still stuck in the gas masks, in the foxholes, in the no man’s land. Arthur’s hand twitched, and he suppressed the urge to cradle the boy’s face, to urge him to cry away his demons—as he’d done with his fallen boys, as he’d done for the poor boys he could reach before they reached for the clouds by jumping off of bridges and out windows.   
  
“Alfred—” Arthur choked. And then stopped. He clenched his eyes shut and collected himself.   
  
“Your knee…” Alfred began.  
  
Arthur pushed Alfred’s hands aside and did not look at him as he cupped the back of his leg with both hands, dragging it out. His body spasmed in pain, but he ignored it and sent a glare towards Alfred when Alfred made a move to help him.   
  
“I can do it on my own,” Arthur said and before Alfred could open his mouth and ask just _what_ Arthur could do on his own, Arthur palmed his patella and pulled it back into place with a cringe not even he could suppress. He gasped out in pain and watched Alfred shudder as the kneecap snapped back into its proper place. Satisfied with fixing his dislocated patella, Arthur felt absolutely no shame when he collapsed into himself with a loud shout of pain as he let the shock wear off him.  
  
“Fuck!” Alfred shouted. “Arthur!”   
  
“You have to move. If any other Germans were in the area, they’ll undoubtedly have heard all the gunshots and be coming this way with reinforcements.” Arthur, sweating, looked over towards the dead bodies and knew they wouldn’t have time to line them up. “Go on without me.”  
  
“Are you out of your fucking mind? You’re shot and you just did a—a weird snappy thing with your leg! Like fuck I’m leaving you behind!”  
  
“For fuck’s sake,” Arthur barked. “Get the fuck out of here. I don’t _want you here._ Run.”   
  
Perhaps he could persuade Alfred through anger to leave again, perhaps then he would get to safety. Alfred, however, just furrowed his brow. “Fuck you, asshole. I don’t care if you want me here or not, I’m not leaving you behind.”  
  
“Foolish boy! I’ll heal. Just find me a good hiding place and I’ll meet you at the rendezvous.”   
  
“No!” Alfred shouted, face rippling into his anger quite favorably—even angry the boy was stupidly attractive. Arthur wondered what he’d done to deserve these things.   
  
“You—!” Arthur began.  
  
“Nothing you say is going to make me change my mind.” He grabbed Arthur’s arm and forced him upward, shoving Arthur’s arm around his shoulders again. “I’m not going to let you die, Arthur,” Alfred said, quietly. “I’m _not._ ”   
  
“Fool,” Arthur snapped, angry and somewhat relieved at the same time—he looked away. “I can’t die.”   
  
“I won’t let them take you away, either,” Alfred said. “We’re gonna get the fuck out of this forest. I saw a farm when I got to the top of a hill in this fucking forest. We’re going there and we’re going to spend the night there and I’m going to get the fucking bullets out of your fucking stubborn body and then you’re gonna heal and we’re gonna do this all _together_. You understand me, you stupid asshole?”   
  
Arthur sneered, but nevertheless slumped against Alfred as Alfred took a step and Arthur hobbled along with him.   
  
“I guess you’re going to be an idiot and not let me carry you, huh?” Alfred asked.  
  
“I can walk,” Arthur gritted out.   
  
“Thought so,” Alfred said with a small roll of his eyes. “Let’s go,” he said, softly. “It’ll be night soon. If it snows, your blood will leave tracks.”  
  
“Fuck,” Arthur said quietly, and kept his eyes on the ground, surveying it for any roots that could trip him and send his body into a seizure or shock from the painful slip.   
  
He wasn’t sure when he slumped into unconsciousness, but he came to a few times during the journey towards Alfred’s mysterious farmhouse, and each time he did, his cheek was pillowed against Alfred’s shoulder as the man carried him carefully in his arms. Arthur couldn’t summon up enough energy to be outraged at being treated like porcelain, though he supposed he deserved the treatment after the entire ordeal that Alfred had come upon _twice_.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
When he awoke to full consciousness, it was to the sounds of French. Alfred’s chest rumbled with the foreign language, heavy on the boy’s tongue but fluent enough. Arthur always knew the boy was fluent—it was impossible with his diverse clusterfuck of cultures in his own borders—and made a note to call him out on his claim of only speaking English—once he didn’t feel like he’d been run over by a tank. Presently, Arthur came to realize that Alfred was speaking French to a scared looking woman, who stared at the two soldiers with bewildered eyes, her hands shaking and searching the forest and the farmlands for any German soldiers.   
  
Alfred was begging for permission to use the barn. Arthur had no idea where this barn was, but supposed it was somewhere behind the main house. Arthur had to wonder if the boy was so polite as to ask permission first or if he was caught—Arthur really would have to teach the boy consistency in stealth. He could sneak up on German soldiers in trees but was incapable of sneaking past a little old French woman? Absurd.   
  
“Alfred…” he murmured, and the rapid fire French ceased immediately.   
  
“Arthur!” Alfred gasped out, bending his face to look at the man in his arms. “You’re awake? How are you feeling?”   
  
Arthur shook his head. “She’s trying to make you leave?”  
  
“Yeah,” Alfred said. “I—”  
  
“Francs… in my pocket. Give them to her,” Arthur commanded, nodding towards his breast pocket. Alfred shifted his hold on Arthur—“Let me down. I’m okay.”   
  
The woman was trying to slam her door shut but Alfred kicked his leg out, preventing the slamming and nearly sending his boot through the old wooden door. Alfred cautiously, calmly, protectively set Arthur down, keeping his arm around his waist while his other hand reached for his breast pocket.  
  
“The other,” Arthur amended, and the hand dragged over his chest, groping for the button to open the pocket and pulling a few Francs out in his bruised fingertips. “Tell her we’ll be gone by dawn.”   
  
“But—”  
  
“We will be ready to move by dawn,” Arthur insisted, eyes sharp.   
  
Alfred bit his tongue and then turned to the woman, setting his foot down only to place his hand on the door to prevent the woman from running away. For her part, she stared at the soldiers with all the force that Arthur knew from experience Francis’ women possessed, but did not retreat from the threshold. She protected her home, to the death if possible. Alfred resumed his conversation with the woman and she continually shook her head until Alfred presented the Francs to her and her anger seemed to dissolve, though the wariness remained.  
  
After what seemed like forever, the woman snatched the Francs, nodded her head, and was finally allowed by Alfred to close her door.   
  
“Okay,” Alfred whispered, and moved to pick Arthur up again. Arthur did not protest too strongly, though he felt a vague hint of annoyance at being so at this boy’s mercy. “She said there’s hay in the loft. You can rest there until you heal. Will dawn really be enough to heal?”  
  
“Not completely,” Arthur said as Alfred carried him towards the barn. “But it’ll be enough. I’ll be able to move by morning.”  
  
“Arthur…”  
  
“Don’t start, boy. I’m too tired.”   
  
Alfred stayed silent as he slid the barn’s door open and slipped inside. The cows and horses were in their stalls, sleeping and dreaming, if livestock could dream. Alfred peered up the ladder and then to Arthur. Arthur glared at him and Alfred smiled sheepishly before setting Arthur down on the ground. Arthur attempted to stand up and Alfred gave him a look.  
  
“Don’t move,” Alfred commanded.  
  
“Yes, _Mother_ ,” Arthur drawled with a sneer.   
  
Alfred just rolled his eyes and hoisted himself up the ladder, depositing his larger gun and pack and disappearing from sight. He ripped down some of the hay in their stacked bales, undoubtedly making some kind of makeshift bed up there for Arthur to rest in—Arthur wondered dryly if he should be touched by the boy’s concern—before sliding back down the rungs to reach Arthur.   
  
“Shit, I forgot your pack and gun,” Alfred said, as if only then realizing.   
  
“I have my Enfield, so that shall suffice in emergencies. We aren’t too far from the rendezvous point, so hopefully fighting won’t be necessary again.”   
  
“Your Enfield is a piece of shit.”   
  
“Fuck you, it is not.”   
  
Alfred rolled his eyes and hoisted Arthur up, pulling him over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes. One hand cupped the back of Arthur’s thighs almost reverently, but most likely just being cautious about the bullet wounds there. With his other hand, he slowly climbed up the ladder. Arthur only groused once about the indignity of being treated like a sack, but Alfred ignored him.   
  
Once up in the loft, Alfred placed Arthur down on the bed of hay he’d made and went to work about removing Arthur’s boots.   
  
“Strip if you can,” Alfred commanded.  
  
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Arthur felt the need to say and actually felt _sheepish_ when Alfred gave him a sharp look. With a sigh, Arthur thumbed at the buttons of his uniform, slowly peeling the blood-caked uniform off his shoulders and letting it slide slowly down his bullet-ridden arms. His movements were slow—his broken fingers were swollen to uselessness at this point.   
  
“Shit,” Alfred said softly as he pulled up the fabric of Arthur’s trousers.   
  
“Hurry it up. It’s fuckin’ cold,” Arthur muttered.  
  
“I don’t have a—”  
  
“Left breast pocket,” Arthur instructed, and handed his uniform to Alfred. “There are forceps. I’d do it myself, but I haven’t had steady hands in months.”  
  
“I’m not much better.”  
  
“You’re better than I,” Arthur said, and the concession was not lost on Alfred, who stared at Arthur in wonderment. Arthur turned his face away. Alfred sighed, retrieved the medical forceps from the pocket, and moved towards him.   
  
“Where should I start?” Alfred asked softly. “And… I. Uh. I’m not very good at these.”  
  
“I’ll guide you,” Arthur murmured. He nodded towards his shoulder. “Start there. It’s the oldest wound.”   
  
Alfred moved cautiously, kneeling beside Arthur, taking care not to jar him. “Jesus,” he breathed. “Anyone would be dead by now.”  
  
“Thankfully I am not anyone,” Arthur murmured.   
  
Alfred was silent, and Arthur was about to ask him what the holdup was until he felt Alfred grasp his uninjured shoulder for stability, and lean over Arthur, brow furrowed as he attempted to dig the forceps into Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur hissed.   
  
“Carefully,” Arthur snapped. Alfred did not apologize. “More to the right,” Arthur gasped, feeling his body shudder as Alfred slowly headed his instructions, grasping the bullet. “Slowly,” Arthur whispered. “Pull it out slowly.”   
  
“Do you have _anything?_ ” Alfred asked. “Anything to sterilize these wounds?”   
  
“I’ll be fine. I’ve been treating wounds for myself long before you ever popped into existence.”  
  
“It wasn’t always bullet wounds.”  
  
“These are much cleaner wounds than the ones from—” he stopped before he could speak the rest of the sentence, before he could admit the wounds he’d received during this child’s revolution had been worse. The bayonets had torn through his body, the musket balls had ripped flesh apart. Bullets were cleaner, though just as painful and deadlier for the humans.   
  
“There,” Alfred said softly, after the silence stretched on. The bullet fell from the forceps with a clatter. “One down—”  
  
“Eight more to go.”  
  
“Eight? Fuck!”   
  
“It’s alright, my lad,” Arthur said, and wondered why it was that he was the one doing the comforting when he was the one bleeding on a bed of hay. He repeated, softer this time, “It’s alright.”   
  
Alfred went to work, following Arthur’s instructions to locate the bullets in the near darkness. They didn’t dare light a candle for fear of alerting any traveler’s to their existence. They were too vulnerable as it was. But the darkness helped more than it hindered—they would be able to wait it out, Arthur would be able to heal.   
  
“You have more scars than last time,” Alfred said quietly after the minutes stretched on and he plucked out the fifth bullet.   
  
“So I do. This is war, my dear—” He choked before he could finish the sentence as Alfred dug the forceps back into his back, to retrieve the last bullet lodged in his side. “M-my dear lad…” he finished, lamely. He reasserted: “It’s war.”   
  
The hand on his shoulders paused. “Yeah…”   
  
This boy, once a colony, had despised Arthur. Had gone to war against him. They hadn’t spoken for years and years, avoided one another, orbited around one another. Time had repaired some of that bad blood, Arthur suspected—Arthur hoped. Now this young man, someone who had once hated him, was slowly, reverently, pulling the bullets from Arthur’s body. With each movement, Arthur shuddered in quiet pain, but, proud, he remained silent.   
  
“Whatever face you’re making, don’t. You know that we heal quickly enough, Alfred,” Arthur said quietly.   
  
“I know,” Alfred muttered. “Don’t treat me like a kid.”  
  
“I am not,” Arthur protested, and ducked his head. “I don’t.”   
  
“Not usually,” Alfred insisted.   
  
Arthur stewed in his silence, and hissed out a sharp breath when Alfred plucked the last bullet from his back.   
  
“Just forget it,” Alfred said after a moment.   
  
Arthur frowned. And, for one, decided that ‘forgetting it’ wasn’t the approach he wanted to take. He swallowed thickly and whispered, “No… you’re right. You aren’t a child. You’re… You’re a man now, I suppose, my dear lad.”   
  
“But apparently still a ‘lad’ to you,” Alfred said, and his lips suggested a smile. “A man, huh?”  
  
“Most boys are deemed men after their first war. And you’ve been in more than any human would ever account for.”   
  
Alfred sobered up, and nodded his head gravely. “Yes.”   
  
Arthur looked out the window, watched the clouds drift in front of the moon. If they’d been in any place other than France, he would hazard to suspect the scenery outside was beautiful. As it stood, he just wanted to go home.   
  
“Do you have any bandages?” Arthur asked when the silence became too deafening.   
  
Alfred seemed surprised by the sudden question. “I’ve—um. Let me check.”   
  
Alfred stood up, and the absence of the warmth left Arthur shivering. He watched as Alfred scrambled to his discarded pack, mindful not to dart in front of the barn loft’s window. He dug through his pack.   
  
“I had to use a lot of my supplies a few days ago when I—when my boys were attacked. I tried to help my boys but… well.” Alfred paused, and his hands stilled. Arthur felt words lodge in his throat. But Alfred recovered with a shake of his head and pulling out the small first aid kit he carried. He popped it open and searched around. “Oh—” he said quietly. “I’ve got some bandages. Um. No iodine or anything, though.”  
  
“I will do my best to survive that,” Arthur drawled, and was not unhappy about the absence of the foul stuff.  
  
He’d meant for it to be a joke, but obviously the phrase chosen wasn’t one that sat well with Alfred, because he gave him a kind of wounded, lost look as he toddled back towards Arthur, kneeling and holding a roll of bandages.   
  
He began wrapping up Arthur’s chest, his fingers grazing over the old scars, and not even touching where there would be new scars. Arthur sighed.   
  
“Arthur?” Alfred asked, pausing.  
  
Arthur shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder if you are too young to be in this place.”  
  
“What? A smelly old barn?”  
  
“You know of what I am speaking,” Arthur said, and resisted the urge to snap at him.   
  
Alfred was quiet, and resumed the bandages. But it was not a complete silence—Arthur knew to wait, knew to wait until Alfred was ready to speak.   
  
“I… what makes you think that, huh?” Alfred asked, laughing. “I’ve gone to war before, after all.”  
  
“You are not unaffected, though,” Arthur said.  
  
“Are any of us?”  
  
“You more than the others. We have been around for centuries and centuries, far longer than any of us may be able to remember. You are still only a few years above three hundred. And you still have much to learn.”   
  
Alfred finished tying up Arthur’s torso, and shifted around so he was facing Arthur now. He ignored, or simply locked away, Arthur’s words. He held out his hand. “Arms or legs first? You pick.”  
  
Arthur deposited his arm into Alfred’s hold, not yet ready to hazard moving his leg, still swollen at the knee. Alfred bent over Arthur’s arm. And sitting in front of him now, Arthur could see how clearly Alfred’s hands shook, how much his face tensed when he felt Arthur’s gaze upon him.  
  
“You are not made of stone, Alfred.”   
  
“I’m not you,” Alfred agreed.   
  
“No,” Arthur agreed, and did not voice how eerily similar Alfred was to Arthur at times—how many times he’d looked to Alfred and seen something that had once been Arthur’s own. He swallowed thickly.   
  
“I could be,” Alfred said.  
  
“Could you?”  
  
“Maybe someday,” Alfred said, with a shrug that was meant to be dismissive but only betrayed how much he wanted to be stronger, to not be seen as only an upstart the fraction of the other nations’ ages. “I… when I have to bury my men—I can’t do it like you can.” Alfred turned his face away, as if ashamed of such humanity. Arthur said nothing. Alfred seemed to feel the need to elaborate. “You don’t cry.”   
  
His free hand felt too heavy in his lap. Arthur inhaled through his nostrils, and let the air rush out through his teeth as Alfred’s shaking fingers tried to guide the forceps to one of the bullets. Arthur said, quietly, “I… am in many ways used to war.”   
  
“You never bat a fucking eyelash. Your civilian’s are bombed and while you sit around bleeding buckets, you remark on the weather and how much you’re going to kick Germany’s ass in the exact same tone.” Alfred shrugged, but his face looked anything but dismissive. He pulled the bullet out. “I don’t know how you do it. How you can be so fucking strong all the fucking time.”   
  
Arthur closed his eyes. He heard the thud of the bullet into the pile of bloody bullets. “I cry, too.”   
  
“Huh?” Alfred asked, blinking. He surveyed Arthur’s arm, and then began bandaging it.  
  
Arthur did not open his eyes. He only breathed for a moment. “When I must bury my men. I cry.”   
  
“But—”  
  
“It is a stupid, foolish thing for me to do. I know this. I should be hardened by war at this point—they are human. Their lives are already remarkably young in comparison to myself. But even so. I am not made of stone, either. As much as I think it would benefit me.”   
  
“Ah…”  
  
“But there is no shame in mourning the loss of your own children,” Arthur said, and clenched his fingers to make sure his nerves were still working properly. Alfred finished bandaging up his arm and shifted now to his leg—the last housing of bullets.   
  
“I guess not,” Alfred said, frowning.   
  
Arthur watched him. “Do you not believe that I cry?”   
  
“I’m just surprised, I guess. I’m just used to the whole ‘stiff upper lip’ thing. I always have to multiply all your reactions by ten to get the American equivalent.”   
  
Arthur couldn’t stop the images of ten times the reaction he gave to his fallen soldiers. He envisioned Alfred falling to his knees, bawling until there were no more tears in his body, his body heaving and shuddering. His thoughts whirled—imagining the first time Alfred ever felt the pain of war, the first time he’d ever been old enough to fight, to understand the needles stuck in his heart were the tiny deaths of every one of his soldiers—one at a time. Arthur felt sick when he realized that it was because of _him_ that Alfred would have witnessed and experienced his first wars, his first deaths, his first kills.   
  
Arthur turned his face away as Alfred plucked out the last bullet and wrapped up Arthur’s leg, then doing his best to make makeshift splints for Arthur’s fingers, and wrapping up his knee to try and curb the swelling. He left it propped up on a crate abandoned on top of the loft, and then settled in, cleaning up the bloody bullets and backing up his pack. He helped Arthur into his uniform again and made sure he was comfortable, even dragging over more hay for him. He reloaded their weapons and unhooked his own holster.   
  
“Here,” he said, wrapping it around Arthur’s waist and buckling it in so that the gun was hanging on Arthur’s other hip. “Now you’ve got two guns, just in case.”   
  
“I’ll be damned if I use yours before my own,” Arthur said with a disdainful sniff.  
  
Alfred gave him a shallow smile. “Hopefully you won’t need either.”   
  
It was finally snowing outside, Arthur noticed vaguely.   
  
“… You shouldn’t have come back,” Arthur said.  
  
“Oh, not this,” Alfred said with an aggravated sigh. “Look, you’re an asshole—we all know it. But I’m not so much of an asshole that I’ll leave you behind.”   
  
Arthur looked away. “I don’t understand why—”  
  
“I just… didn’t want to go on alone,” Alfred said quietly.   
  
Arthur frowned at him. He frowned harder than he’d ever frowned before. “What?”   
  
The other nation shrugged one shoulder. “I just. I watched all my… my boys died right in front of me, gunned down, ya know? I… I’ve seen things like that a lot over the years. And I never… get that many scars.”   
  
His hand fell to his own chest, though, where undoubtedly he had a few collections of scars he’d gathered over the course of these two modern wars.   
  
“Alfred—”  
  
“And. Um. I… I never know when I’ll see you next,” Alfred said quietly.   
  
Arthur’s first response was shock—out of all the people in the world, Alfred wished to see _him_?—and then he was faced with the open secret he so often refused to acknowledge, that he’d always thought Alfred was content to dance around, too. He felt his face heat up and he looked away. There was only one way Arthur knew how to face his feelings, and that was going on the offensive.   
  
“Stupid boy,” Arthur said. “Instead of acting like such a child all the time, you should learn a thing or two about the world and _grow up._ Do you think this is easy for any of us? I never know when I will see anyone next, anyone at all. You, my people—I. I do not—this is war.”  
  
Alfred, for one brief moment, looked wounded. Arthur instantly regretted the reprimand.   
  
“I know what war is,” Alfred said quietly, and looked away—stung.   
  
“Yes, I daresay you do,” Arthur muttered, wishing he knew how to apologize properly to a nation he’d spent so many years wishing to never forgive. “Short as your history is, it’s always been rather bloody, hasn’t it?”   
  
Alfred stayed quiet.   
  
Arthur sighed, and looked over to him. Alfred’s face was angled away, and the light was too dark for Arthur to make his expression out properly.   
  
Arthur swallowed thickly. “I—Alfred…”   
  
“Yeah?” Alfred asked.  
  
“You… truly wish to see me?” Arthur wished he didn’t sound hopeful.   
  
Alfred shrugged. “Hell if I know _why._ Francis wasn’t lying when he said the English were cold.”   
  
Arthur couldn’t really get angry over such a comment. He lowered his eyes. The words that had lodged in his throat since the eighteenth century finally bubbled over, finally tumbled past his tongue and teeth and he did nothing to stop them—“F… forgive me.”  
  
Alfred seemed surprised by such a statement, nearly as surprised as Arthur was. Alfred made a soft, noncommittal noise. Arthur kept his gaze pointedly away from Alfred.  
  
“I’m… the years have made me cold. It is—well. It is not something I can help very easily.” Arthur closed his eyes, and inhaled sharply, feeling his body creak and wheeze in protest. His muscles were screaming. He was so tired. So haunted. So ready for everything to end. He slumped forward a little.   
  
“You aren’t that cold,” Alfred finally relented after a long, pained silence. He cleared his throat. “I mean—yeah. Could be worse. You’ve got a heart of gold somewhere underneath that prickly exterior. I… remember it.”   
  
The words were heavy in the air, and Arthur felt his lungs constrict and his heart heave into his throat.   
  
“Anyway,” Alfred said quietly, suddenly bashful in the face of their shared history. “You really must be delirious if you’re apologizing to _me._ You should sleep. I’ll keep watch.”   
  
It was a dismissal. But Arthur did not miss the way Alfred’s cheeks were pink. If he had the strength to face what was always unspoken head-on, Arthur would refuse to sleep, he would beckon Alfred over, he would fist his hands into his uniform and pull him down and—  
  
But such thoughts were not productive. Arthur inhaled until he felt his lungs would burst. And he did what he always did—forced all those feelings down into the pit of his stomach, bottled them up, and left them to fester and, hopefully, please please please someday—dissipate.   
  
Arthur knew he would have to wait a long time. He swallowed again.   
  
“Go sleep,” Alfred said again, softer this time.   
  
Arthur nodded absently. Arthur was afraid to sleep, though. He could anticipate the nightmares, lurking in the corners of his mind. He watched Alfred angle himself away, press up against the wall of the barn’s loft, gazing out the window without betraying his own features to the moonlight outside. Arthur watched him, and then slowly laid himself out across the hay, curling into himself for warmth and protection, and in the vain hope that he could expel the demons before he fell asleep.   
  
He closed his eyes.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
When Arthur awoke before dawn the next morning, Alfred was curled up protectively against him, heavy arm across his waist, brows furrowed in sleep. Arthur remembered a time when Alfred could sleep peacefully.   
  
Looking at Alfred, Arthur allowed himself the indulgence of stroking the line of his jaw with his bruised fingertips. He was soft to the touch, even in a war-hardened state of living. Arthur breathed out and then pulled away. He woke Alfred up, slowly, and they set out again, never stopping.


End file.
